The Truth about the Poem

Who wants to peruse
a text without a story?
Not even the forensic
philologist who disinters
the revenants of words
can resist gently padding
stories around the bare bones.

And that's what you get
once you've cleared away
the cobwebs of the busy
story weavers: the bare bones
of the poem, of the yearning
and its ending, nothing else.
And yet, and yet, sorrow

such as it is, will insist,
will seep in and stain
the cleanest remains,
stories or story or none.
Is there anything then
to be written or said,
leaving bare bones alone?